


Anthony J Crowley Esquire

by RebeccaStevenTaylor



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Good Omens: Lockdown, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaStevenTaylor/pseuds/RebeccaStevenTaylor
Summary: The lockdown has separated Aziraphale and Crowley as they slowly begin to move closer to each other - and Aziraphale is finding it impossible to say what he wants out loud. He writes Crowley a letter (as seen in the Good Omens: Lockdown video) but a mysterious woman has other plans (One swear word!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 79





	1. The Letter

‘Goodnight Angel,’ Crowley said with a sigh, and put the phone down. Aziraphale stared at the silent receiver in his hand. He hadn’t meant the conversation to end like that. He had so much he wanted to say, so much he had to say, and yet every time it got to the actual moment, he completely failed to screw his courage to the sticking place, and ended up babbling instead.

He looked down at his desk. Well, there was always the letter. He had composed it especially. He had spent hours – days - on that. He’d looked up Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson and Keats (not that he needed to, the phrases had been in his head for years, but it was satisfying to look up the correct reference.) He’d written it in his best copper-plate handwriting (toned down slightly, as Crowley had complained it was so fancy it was unreadable, and Crowley MUST be able to understand this). He’d sealed it using his angel wings seal, with green sealing wax, for letters from lovers who live in hope, addressed it to Anthony J Crowley Esq (no address was needed. The letter would know where to go). It was a work of art. Now Aziraphale just needed to work up the nerve to send it.

He had eschewed the hour’s exercise he was allowed outside, but he stuck faithfully to the one shopping trip. He needed the supplies for his ever-growing mountain of cake, although the corner shop was short of many ingredients (like cherries) and he refused to go any further. He was an angel still, and he had to set a good example. And opposite the shop, was a postbox.

Aziraphale conscientiously did his shopping first (they had lemons! He would be able to make lemon drizzle cake!) and then stood outside the postbox, letter in hand, dithering. He was a constant ditherer, he knew that. Gabriel had mentioned it on several occasions. He had almost destroyed everything with Crowley because he dithered. He had firmly told himself several times that he had to pull himself together and behave with more determination, just like Crowley. And yet, here he was, dithering.

‘You might as well post it.’

He hadn’t seen her arrive. She was standing the regulation two meters away from him, but Aziraphale felt almost as if she were at his shoulder, whispering in his ear. She was a handsome woman, with masses of brown hair. She smiled like she knew everything.

‘You might as well post it,’ she repeated. ‘Look around you. The world is full of people sending each other letters and talking and all the rest of it and it all boils down to one thing – they’re finally getting round to telling people the truth. Good and bad. Bit difficult to lie to each other when you’re all locked up together.’

‘Oh, I’ve been at the end of the world before,’ Aziraphale said sadly. ‘I didn’t manage to say it then either. I can’t seem to get the words out.’

‘This isn’t the end of the world, pet. This is the world changing. Time for us all to change with it.’

Aziraphale nodded, and posted the letter. There, that was done. He was going to go home, and bake a lot. Lots and lots and lots.

*******************

Crowley put the phone down and wandered into his plant room and started misting, more in sorrow than anger. He thought it would have been a good idea, all that time alone together. Time to get know each other – well, not better, they already knew each other as well as two beings could, but differently. Things had been going on a bit since the Apoc-not. There was the hand-holding for a start. They had held hands on the bus home from Tadfield and on the way back from the Ritz and now, every so often, Aziraphale would reach out tentatively and Crowley would grasp his hand. That was nice.

There had been that evening, a week after the Apoc-not, when they had got very drunk, and sat on the sofa side by side, and Aziraphale had touched his face so gently and kept murmuring ‘so beautiful, so lovely.’ Crowley had prepared for this moment, he had composed hundreds of speeches, from romantic declarations to just grabbing the angel and kissing him, but just when it had happened, they had all gone out of his head. Instead he had just stared at Aziraphale and whispered ‘not dead, not dead,’ all night. But they had both been so drunk they'd passed out, and nothing was said the next morning.

It was fine, though. There had been a few moments when he was sure something was going to happen, Aziraphale was going to say something, but a customer had come into the shop, or someone had beeped at the Bentley to move and once or twice Crowley wished the whole world was just leave them alone to get on with it. But not to worry, he didn’t want to risk it all by moving too fast, and they had all the time in the world now.

And then right in the middle of their soft, slow moving towards each other, the world had fallen to bits and they had spent a frantic week trying to track down Pestilence and they had achieved something, at least, it wasn’t going to be as bad as Pestilence had planned for their comeback tour, but it was going to be bad all the same and everyone had to retreat home and lock the doors and somehow, in the confusion, Aziraphale and Crowley had ended up in separate homes. Separated. And once home alone, Aziraphale wouldn’t budge.

Crowley understood it, he thought, waving the bottle around, and pausing to glower at a small fern. The angel had spent eons obeying a long list of very specific instructions and you didn’t get out of that habit overnight. He didn’t obey Heaven anymore – he was fairly sure if Gabriel turned up, Aziraphale would very politely tell him to ‘fuck off.’ No, Aziraphale had exchanged Heaven’s laws for humanity’s. He obeyed every speed limit (or tried to get Crowley to) and never walked on the grass and when lockdown had come he had locked the doors firmly behind him.

But Crowley missed him. He ached for him. He longed and pined and yearned for him. Crowley was quite intensely pissed off at how much he missed Aziraphale. But he had reached out and Aziraphale had blustered, as he did, and Crowley understood why, he really did, but understanding didn’t seem to stop it hurting. He was planning to do what he always did when Aziraphale, however unconsciously, hurt him (and the cartoon cinema was closed.) He’d sleep.

He was in his pyjamas and trying to get comfortable on the wall when the bell rang. Who would be ringing his doorbell now, in the middle of a lockdown?

And before his brain could fully engage, he’d run to the door and flung it open, crying;

‘Couldn’t stay away, Angel?’

The postman was very surprised. Mutely, he handed the envelope to Crowley.

Crowley shut the door, and leaned against it, staring at the envelope. Green wax. He knew what meant. He’d been instrumental in creating all the love languages of sealing wax and flower and fans and stamps because it was hysterical to see someone obliviously stick a stamp on the wrong way round and send completely the wrong message. Aziraphale had completely bought into the romanticism of the entire thing, of course. He knew what message Aziraphale was sending with the green wax and his name, so beautifully written and the thick heavy paper.

Crowley’s hands shook as he opened the envelope carefully. It would be just like Aziraphale to write it all down rather than say a word. He unfolded the paper as if it would burn him.

It was blank.

Crowley turned the sheet over a few times, and checked the envelope. Then he swore vociferously


	2. The Visit

Aziraphale waited. He waited a day, and made lemon cake. He waited two days, and made Battenburg cake. He waited three days and made pineapple upside-down cake.

It was funny, though, he didn’t feel like eating any of them.

By day five, he had made six loaves of banana bread, a pile of madeleines, and failed at his tenth try at making crepes. He was also very upset. The post was delayed, he knew, totally understandable in these situations. Perhaps it hadn’t reached Crowley before he went to bed? Was he going to have to wait until July to find out Crowley’s reply? If Crowley wanted to reply? This really was too bad. Awful really. He wished he had the nerve to tell him to come over. He missed Crowley. This hurt. This hurt so much, right there, in his heart.

He was struggling his way through the recipe for seed cake when he heard the front door slam open. Oh, thank goodness, the burglars were back. He had so much cake to get rid of.

‘Ah, tell me, how do you feel about coffee cake?’ he cried as he went into the shop.

‘I hate it. Coffee should be in a cup, not a cake.’

Crowley. Crowley was here. Oh, how wonderful and enchanting, just like a storybook – but he shouldn’t be here, it was all wrong, and Crowley was holding his letter, and he looked so angry, and what was going on? And Aziraphale, as he often did when confused by Crowley, got angry himself.

‘What are you doing here? You can’t break the lockdown!’

‘I miracled myself here. The pavement didn’t touch my feet until I got to your door. Now, what, Aziraphale, is the meaning of this?’

Crowley advanced on Aziraphale, waving the letter in his hand. Aziraphale backed up. Oh dear. This wasn’t how he had wanted it to go. He had hoped Crowley would feel the same way, but maybe not? Obviously not, considering how insulted he was by the letter.

‘Well, it means what it says,’ Aziraphale said. ‘I should have thought that was quite clear.’

‘No! Not clear at all.’

‘So you don’t feel the same way?’ Aziraphale said, backing into the kitchen.

‘No. No, I don’t!’ Crowley said. ‘If I even knew what the letter said. Why is this room full of cake?’

Aziraphale, almost without thinking, picked up the mixing bowl and started stirring the rather turgid mixture in it. This was going so wrong. He’d put his heart and soul into that letter and apparently Crowley didn’t want his heart and soul.

‘I told you I’d been baking,’ he said, in a subdued voice.

‘You haven’t eaten any of it. What’s wrong?’ Crowley demanded, but before Aziraphale could answer, the front door bell rang as someone opened the door.

‘You didn’t lock up behind you,’ Aziraphale chided, as he hurried away. Crowley stared round the room. Cake everywhere, of all kinds – and not one cut. Not one touched. He picked up a scone and bit into it. The scone was perfect, crumbly, but not too much. Aziraphale should have enjoyed devouring it, carefully loading it with cream and jam, after a thirty minute discussion on whether it should be jam or cream first, and then eating it slowly, enjoying every bite, neatly dabbing his mouth with a napkin after each bite. It would have been a long, slow process to eat this perfect scone, and Crowley would have enjoyed watching every second – and yet it was untouched. Here Aziraphale was, locked in with cake and books. And yet the books remained closed and the cake uneaten. He was surrounded by temptation and yet he hadn’t given in. What was wrong? What was going on?

Aziraphale walked towards the police woman standing in his shop. If he had been less distressed, perhaps he would have realised that he had seen the handsome, dark-haired woman before, standing by the postbox.

'Sir, I just wanted to check that you were aware of the rules on opening at the moment?’

‘Oh, yes, absolutely,’ Aziraphale said. ‘And I was locking the door. I just had a visitor.’

‘You’re not supposed to have visitors either, Mr Fell.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘He could spread germs, going back and forth, along the street. It’s very important that everyone stay at home.’

‘Yes, yes I do see…’

‘So I’m afraid the best thing your visitor can do is stay here.’

‘Stay here?’ Aziraphale said. ‘Oh no. No, that’s quite impossible. I mean normally – but he seems very upset – and I am sure he’d grow irritated with me if he had to be around me all the time, and I’d be delighted to have him here, but he’s not happy and he hates to be locked up and ….’

‘I’m afraid it’s the law, sir,’ she said, heading towards the door.

‘Is it?’ Aziraphale said. He wasn’t quite sure it was, but he wasn’t about to disobey a police officer. Anyway, Crowley could miracle himself out of here…

‘Not a problem, officer. I’m not budging from this place from now on,’ Crowley said. He was suddenly there, leaning against a post, a glass of wine in his hand. Aziraphale’s heart melted. Crowley was so dear to him, he needed him so much, but he couldn’t make him stay…

‘And I will check, every day,’ the police officer said. ‘I’ll pop by to see you are both home and safe, if that’s all right.’

‘Fine by me,’ Crowley said, sipping his wine.

‘Is it?’ Aziraphale said, panicking again. ‘Oh, yes, yes it is. How do you feel about coffee cake, officer? I have some. Call tomorrow, and I’ll give it to you.’

Once she was gone, Aziraphale turned around.

‘Looks like you’re stuck here,’ he said, wringing his hands.

‘Looks like I am,’ Crowley said, looking perfectly at home.

‘Right…right…’Aziraphale said, moving into the room, torn between joy Crowley was here, and worry about whatever was making him angry. Crowley held out the letter to him, and Aziraphale took it.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘If I had any idea that what I had written would make you angry, I would never…’

‘You didn’t write anything, Aziraphale,’ Crowley said, standing up straight. ‘It’s a blank sheet of paper.’

Aziraphale opened the letter and looked at it. Where were his words? His carefully chosen quotations, his exquisite phrasing, his meaningful musings? All the words he could never speak he had written down and it was all gone.

‘I wrote…I wrote…’

‘What?’ Crowley, ever so gently, came forward. ‘What did you write, angel?’

‘I wrote – I wrote what I have been trying to say,’ Aziraphale said. ‘I can never seem to get it out, it seems. I always stumble over the words. I thought, perhaps, if I wrote it down…I had all these quotations. I consulted the finest letters! I copied the styles of the greatest authors…’

‘Angel…’ Crowley said, and he held out his hand. Aziraphale took it, and stepped closer. ‘I don’t want their words. I want yours, in your voice. I want you to speak to me.’

‘I find it so terribly difficult, my dear.’

‘I know.’ Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s hand tighter. ‘If it helps, I’m pretty sure that I’m going to say the same thing, when the moment comes.’

‘The moment seems to be taking a very long time,’ Aziraphale said, with a sad laugh.

‘But – we’re stuck here. Together, alone, with cakes and wine, for the foreseeable future. No interruptions or anything. Nowhere else to be.’

‘No customers. Possibly burglars.’

‘If the moment is any time, it’ll be when we can’t get away from each other,’ Crowley said, with a shaky laugh. Slowly – don’t go too fast– he pulled Aziraphale towards him.

‘But it was such a good letter,’ Aziraphale said. ‘I put so much work into it, and now it’s all wasted.’

‘Hey, it got me here, didn’t it? And isn’t that what you secretly wanted?’

‘Well, I – the rules – I mean…’

‘And now we’re hunkering down together,’ Crowley bent down, just the slightest bit, inclining his head towards Aziraphale.

‘Well, yes, I could do with some help eating all those cakes.’

‘And I do love to watch you eat cake.’

Crowley paused, his lips a breath away from Aziraphale. His angel had to make the final move. Crowley would ease the path for him, sprinkle it with flowers and lead him down it, but his angel had to take the first step for himself. He hesitated.

Aziraphale looked up. All alone with Crowley. No excuses now. No-one to stop them or interrupt. No reason at all to stop or go home. They were home. This was – terrifying – but the world was terrifying right now, and humans, lovely wonderful humans were facing up to it. He could be brave too.

The world, after all, was changing. He leaned forward and let his lips touch Crowley’s. They were both very still for a moment, and then Aziraphale grabbed hold of Crowley’s jacket and pulled him in for a deeper, longer kiss. Crowley, surprised, let himself be pulled close.

When he let Crowley go, the demon, stood up, panting a bit.

‘That’s what the letter said,’ Aziraphale said. ‘Now tell me your reply.’

*********************************************

Lockdown went on, and for every minute of it, the angel and the demon, locked in the bookshop, found out all the ways they could say I love you to each other – and not one of them was a letter.


End file.
